


Nos Cedamus Amori

by skywalkersamidala



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Adultery, Alternate Universe - Ancient Rome, Alternate Universe - Historical, F/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Slavery, mentions of past domestic abuse, mentions of slave abuse, references to an arranged marriage between teenage girl and adult man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-05
Updated: 2018-05-05
Packaged: 2019-05-02 15:56:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14548224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skywalkersamidala/pseuds/skywalkersamidala
Summary: Anakin is a gladiator and a slave. Padmé is the wife of the Roman emperor's heir. Circumstances should never even allow them to meet, let alone fall in love.





	Nos Cedamus Amori

**Author's Note:**

> As you may or may not know, I’m a classics major specifically interested in Roman history, so I just couldn’t resist writing an Anidala ancient Rome AU at some point :D This one’s also for Anidala Week 2018 (prompt: historical AU) on Tumblr. This fic is set vaguely in the 2nd ish century C.E. I suppose. Obviously there was no Roman emperor Palpatine so the actual history here is BS, but in all other respects I’ve tried to be as accurate as possible. Except the very premise of a genuine consensual romantic relationship between a gladiator and the future empress is so absurd that my inner historian was at war with my inner hopeless romantic for quite a lot of this fic lmao
> 
> This is ancient Rome we’re dealing with, so there’s some stuff in here that’s darker than my usual fics. WARNINGS FOR: slavery, non-graphic violence, adultery, references to an arranged marriage between a 16-year-old girl and an adult man (NOT Anakin & Padmé), mentions of past domestic abuse (NOT between Anakin & Padmé), mentions of slave abuse
> 
> I also pretentiously threw in some Latin terminology and I hate myself for it, so here’s a lil glossary:  
> Flavian Amphitheater = the Colosseum (Colosseum is a later name which the actual ancient Romans never used, a fun fact which I learned only recently and it blew my mind)  
> ludus = gladiatorial training school  
> lanista = owner of a ludus  
> domina = mistress  
> Amor vincit omnia et nos cedamus amori = Love conquers all, so let us surrender to love (a Vergil quote which I presume an educated elite woman like Padmé would be familiar with, tho idk if Anakin would be. Suspend your disbelief please)
> 
> And finally, here is a shitty graphic I made of this AU (but the details aren't quite the same since I made the graphic a year before I wrote the fic): http://anakinskydala.tumblr.com/post/156595838611/anidala-au-anakin-was-nine-years-old-when-the

Even underneath the arena, the noise of the crowd was deafening. Anakin took a shaky breath and shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his heart pounding so hard he could physically feel it.

“Nervous?”

He turned his head and saw Obi-Wan, veteran gladiator from Britannia, watching him. “Yes,” Anakin confessed.

“It gets easier each time,” Obi-Wan said by way of comfort, though the world-weary expression on his face wasn’t exactly helping.

A moment later the signal was given, and the procession of gladiators began making their way up to the stadium. Anakin gripped his sword tightly, wishing his hands weren’t sweating so much. As they entered the arena, the noise escalated from a muffled rumble to an earsplitting roar. Anakin couldn’t help but be awed as he looked around. He never thought he’d even lay eyes on the Flavian Amphitheater, and now here he was about to fight inside it. The three layers of archways towered above him, the seating for women and slaves so high up their faces were just dots. Anakin had never felt so small.

They paraded around the arena floor to much cheering, and at last they halted in front of the imperial box. Anakin slowly raised his eyes, drinking in the sight of the people he’d only seen on coins or in statue form. Emperor Palpatine, adorned in his full imperial regalia, and on either side of him, his adopted son and heir Rush Clovis and Clovis’s wife Padmé.

Anakin’s breath caught. Suddenly, he was struck by a long-forgotten memory: twelve years old, his first year in Italy, seeing a newly-built statue of a beautiful girl on his way to the market, asking which goddess she was, Kitster’s laughter when he’d explained it was the new wife of the emperor’s son, not a goddess at all.

Now, ten years later and a real face rather than painted marble, Padmé Amidala was even more beautiful. For a split second they locked eyes and Anakin could’ve sworn the universe shifted.

But the moment passed as the other gladiators saluted the emperor, and Anakin hastily joined them. Out of the corner of his eye, he looked at the expressions on his comrades’ faces. Obi-Wan looked resigned. Ahsoka, a gladiatrix from Parthia who’d been captured in the recent war, looked like she wanted nothing more than to destroy the family who had killed hers. There was a time when Anakin could’ve related; now, after ten years as a Roman slave, he was just tired.

The emperor signaled the official start of the games as the crowd roared in approval, and Anakin descended once more into the depths of the amphitheater to await his match.

* * *

“Should be a good show today,” Clovis drawled from the emperor’s other side. “Did you see that Parthian gladiatrix?”

“A rare treat,” Palpatine agreed. “I did ask the _lanista_ to send me his best.”

Padmé watched the retreating back of the gladiator with long, tousled blond hair. She’d felt… _something_ as she’d looked at him, though she couldn’t quite explain it.

“What do you think, Padmé?”

She tore her attention back to the conversation. “It does look like an exciting group,” she said politely.

Of all her imperial obligations, attending the games was among Padmé’s least favorite. She didn’t consider herself a squeamish person, but the butchery in the arena made her stomach turn. The gladiatorial bouts weren’t until the afternoon; first she had to suffer through the beast hunts and executions, which were far more gruesome.

By the time the gladiators returned, Padmé was more than ready for the day to end. First up was a Britannic gladiator whom she recognized—he’d been fighting at the Amphitheater for several years. He was a crowd favorite by now, and exhilarated cheers went up when he defeated his relatively unknown opponent. Several more matches occurred before the gladiatrix was brought back out to more cheering and gleefully scandalized mutters. Padmé pitied the poor girl, enslaved and forced to fight for others’ entertainment; she couldn’t have been more than fifteen or sixteen. The same age Padmé was when she was handed off to a rich, influential husband ten years her senior. No, she mused as she listened to Clovis and Palpatine’s running commentary and applause, having no control over your own fate wasn’t something either of them would understand.

A while later, the blond gladiator returned. Padmé sat up a little straighter, leaning forward in her seat slightly without even realizing it. The herald announced that this was Anakin from Carthage, which was met by jeers and boos. Even centuries later, the Romans hadn’t forgiven their ancient enemy. Then the herald told them all that this was Anakin’s first match ever, which stacked the odds even higher against him. Interesting. Padmé had noticed a scar on his face during the salute and had assumed he was an experienced gladiator. Perhaps he’d received it during training. Or perhaps he’d formerly been a slave of a particularly harsh master.

“He’ll never win,” Clovis said dismissively.

“He looks quite strong,” Padmé countered.

“But look at his opponent.”

Indeed, Anakin’s opponent was massive. Rather than the disinterest and vague disapproval with which she usually watched the games, Padmé found herself watching this match with her heart in her throat. She gasped each time the sound of weapons clashing rang through the stadium, winced each time Anakin received a blow, smiled each time he dealt one. At first he seemed timid and was quickly beaten back, but then he started to gain strength and with it, ground. Before Padmé knew it, he’d disarmed his opponent and knocked him flat on his back, sword at his throat.

The crowd roared with noise as people started gesturing wildly with their hands, the closed fist representing a request for mercy for the fallen gladiator, thumbs out to signal the desire for death. Padmé looked to Palpatine, with whom the final decision lay. He made the crowd wait for it, basking in their attention and milking the suspense for all its worth, before finally raising his own closed fist. Relieved applause and disappointed booing echoed through the arena. Padmé shared the former sentiment; she’d already seen more than enough bloodshed that day.

Anakin obligingly lowered his sword, and then he did something highly unusual: he extended his hand and helped his opponent to his feet. The crowd gasped, and Padmé along with them. Gladiators always seemed so savage, with no concept of virtue or courtesy. But for the first time, she realized that since these gladiators were all from the same _ludus,_ gladiatorial school, they must have trained alongside each other. Perhaps they were even… _friends._ Friends forced to hurt and occasionally even _kill_ each other for sport.

Padmé looked around the amphitheater with new eyes, now doubly sickened by the mindless, heartless crowd. Maybe, she thought, it was the ones not in the stands, but on the arena floor who had virtue.

* * *

“How were the games, _domina?”_ Shmi asked as she bustled into the room with an armful of supplies necessary to change Padmé’s hairstyle before dinner.

“They were…more diverting than I’d expected,” Padmé said after a moment. “There was a new gladiator who seemed quite intriguing. I think he’ll become well-known in Rome soon enough, he was very skilled.”

“Oh yes?” Shmi said. “What’s his name?”

“Anakin,” Padmé said, taking a seat at her dressing table and examining her fingernails. “Anakin from Carthage.”

The hair supplies clattered to the ground.

Padmé looked up in surprise and saw Shmi looking pale as a spirit of the dead. “Are you all right?” she asked.

“Anakin?” Shmi repeated faintly. “The gladiator’s name was Anakin? From Carthage?”

“Yes,” Padmé said, still bewildered.

“How—how old was he?”

“I couldn’t say. My age, perhaps younger.”

“And his hair…” Shmi said. “What color was his hair?”

“Blond.”

Shmi sank to the ground and put her head in her hands, and a second later Padmé realized she was crying. Alarmed, she knelt down beside her, hesitated for a moment, then awkwardly reached out to pat her on the back. “What’s wrong?” she said.

Shmi finally looked up at her, joy and despair and hope all written in her expression. “Anakin is my son.”

* * *

The day after the games, Anakin was back at the _ludus_ and his regular training routine. He was practicing with a dummy when Jango Fett, the _lanista,_ called him over. “You’ve got a visitor,” Fett said after Anakin had jogged over. He smirked. “Seems you’ve caught the eye of a high-class lady already.”

Bemused, Anakin headed over to his room in the barracks to receive his visitors, wondering who it could possibly be. He entered the tiny chamber and almost keeled over when he realized it was Padmé Amidala.

He bowed his head. _“Domina,”_ he said respectfully. “I am honored by your presence.”

“That’s very kind, but I’m not the one here to see you,” she said. Her voice surprised him, lilting and melodic. “I’ve brought someone—one of my slaves, I believe you may know her.”

Padmé stepped aside, revealing a second figure Anakin initially hadn’t noticed thanks to the dim lighting. The figure approached, and as her face came into the light Anakin swore it was a shade, swore he’d actually died in the arena yesterday and now he was in the afterlife.

“Ani?”

For the first time in ten years, the first time since that terrible day a Roman soldier had ripped him screaming from her arms, Anakin looked into the eyes of his mother. “Mother,” he said in a trembling voice, and a second later they were throwing their arms around each other and bursting into tears.

“How—how did you find me?” Anakin asked several minutes later when he could finally speak again.

“My mistress was at the games yesterday and when she got back she mentioned a gladiator named Anakin from Carthage,” Shmi said, beaming at him. “Once I told her I thought you might be my son, she insisted on bringing me here today to see you.”

Finally Anakin remembered there was a third person in the room. He turned to look at Padmé, who was standing a respectful distance away, smiling and looking a little tearful herself as she watched the reunion. “Thank you,” he choked out.

She gave him a nod. “I will leave you alone to get reacquainted,” she said before turning to leave.

Shmi bombarded him with a million questions, and Anakin dutifully did his best to summarize all that had happened to him since the attack on their village. “I’ve been in Italy the whole time, but with masters out in the provinces,” he explained. “It wasn’t until I was sold to the _ludus_ last year that I came to Rome itself.”

“Why were you sold?” Shmi asked, the look on her face saying she already knew the answer.

“Disobedience,” Anakin said with a half-shrug. “My last master was…easily angered, and I talked back to him one day.”

“Oh, my Ani,” she said softly, gently tracing the scar on his face. “You’ve always been too bold for your own good.”

Anakin smiled and rested his forehead against hers, marveling that now he had to look down at her when in his memories she was so much taller. Shmi was older now, her face more worn and lined, but ultimately she looked as he remembered. He couldn’t imagine how different he must look to her than the twelve-year-old boy she’d last seen.

“What about you?” he asked. “Have you been in Rome all these years?”

Shmi nodded. “I was sold to the imperial household right away and I’ve stayed there ever since,” she said. “It wasn’t too long after I arrived that Padmé married Rush Clovis, so I was assigned as one of her personal handmaids.”

“Have you been treated decently?” Anakin asked anxiously; the scars on his back proved that he certainly had not.

“Oh, yes,” Shmi assured him. “Padmé is a very kind mistress.”

“But still a mistress,” Anakin muttered. “If she was really kind, she’d free you.” Hopefully she’d moved out of earshot.

“Don’t say that,” Shmi said, much more sharply than necessary. “She already does as much for us as she can. More than she should. I could have bought my freedom years ago thanks to the generous allowance she gives us, and many of her other slaves have done so.”

“So why didn’t you?” Anakin asked, confused. He’d always planned to buy his freedom the split second he had enough money, but none of his previous masters had been as generous as Padmé supposedly was.

Shmi gave a huff of laughter. “What would I do if I was free?” she said simply. “Where would I go? How would I afford, on my own, food and clothing and a place to live?”

That gave Anakin pause. For the first time, he realized that maybe buying one’s freedom wasn’t so simple. He’d never been trained in handling his master’s finances or business or any sort of trade, only repairwork and field labor. Would he be able to make a living on his own? And it would be even harder for Shmi, a middle-aged woman, to find employment, especially with no relatives or friends to help her. No wonder she’d decided against buying her freedom. At least as a slave she was guaranteed a roof over her head. And if Padmé was indeed as kind as she said, perhaps her life wasn’t so bad. Anakin imagined the imperial family’s personal slaves would live better than just about any other slaves in the Roman empire.

Still, a slave was a slave no matter how well they were treated. “Someday, we’ll both buy our freedom and I’ll find work to support us,” Anakin promised her. “And we’ll never have to serve a master again, not for the rest of our lives. Maybe we can even go home to Carthage once we’ve saved up enough money.”

Shmi smiled at him, half hopeful and half sad. “I would like that.”

* * *

Anakin’s unexpected success in his first match had caught the interest of the crowd, which meant he found himself participating in more and more games afterwards. Within a year, he’d achieved celebrity status, known throughout Rome as “the gladiator with no fear.”

Padmé took Shmi to see him every week, more or less. Anakin started hearing vague gossip about Rush Clovis’s wife having a gladiator sweetheart, and his fellow gladiators often teased him about it, though of course it wasn’t true—she only bothered coming with Shmi because Jango Fett was more likely to let Anakin take a break from training to see a visitor if one of those visitors was the future empress.

But one day, Padmé came by herself. _“Domina,”_ Anakin greeted her, unable to hide his surprise. “My mother isn’t with you?”

“I’m sorry, she’s feeling unwell today,” Padmé said.

“Unwell?” Anakin repeated, worried. “How unwell?”

“Nothing serious, just a headache,” Padmé hastened to assure him. “She insisted she was fine to work today, but I told her to stay in her quarters and rest. Anyway, I only came to see you because I knew you’d be expecting our visit and I wanted to explain why she wouldn’t be coming today. I’m going to return to the palace now, I suppose.”

She declared all this before Anakin could even get a word in, and as she turned to go he wanted, for some reason, to call out to her and ask her to stay. But instead he blurted out, “What’s that?”

Padmé paused and looked at him over her shoulder. “Pardon?”

Anakin’s eyes were locked on her back. The sleeve of her gown had slipped off her shoulder, revealing a thin scar. Padmé followed his gaze and hastily pulled her sleeve back up, face flaming. “Nothing,” she said, turning around to face him again.

“I have scars like those on my back. But…you’re not a slave,” Anakin said, frowning slightly.

“No,” Padmé said, avoiding his eyes and seeming to weigh her next words carefully. “But I am a wife.”

Anakin stared at her, feeling nausea rising as he put her words together. “Clovis did that to you?” he said, too horrified to bother referring to Clovis by his proper titles.

“I was young, stupid,” Padmé said, her tone almost self-deprecating. “The first few months after our marriage, I noticed I had too many slaves, far more than was even remotely necessary. So I freed twenty of them. I thought it wouldn’t matter because they were my slaves and I could do whatever I wanted with them. But in the imperial household, everything belongs to the emperor. He was furious, and so was my husband. He beat me in front of my remaining slaves to teach us all a lesson about frivolously throwing away the emperor’s possessions. And he told me if I ever freed a slave again, he’d kill them rather than let them go free. I haven’t dared test whether he meant it. Instead I divvy up most of my allowance among my slaves so they can eventually buy their freedom on their own. He hasn’t seemed to notice that.”

Anakin’s ears were ringing. Suddenly, he remembered the way Shmi had reprimanded him for criticizing Padmé for not freeing her. It must have been because she knew, as Anakin had not, what the consequences of that might be. “Was my mother there?” he said quietly. “When this happened. Was she at the palace then?”

Padmé nodded. “She was the one who applied the healing salve on my back afterwards.”

Anakin was so angry he could hardly speak. He stood there trying to take calming breaths, repeatedly clenching his hands into fists and unclenching them again. “I’m sorry,” he said finally. “Before, I thought—I made false assumptions about what sort of person you were judging by your status. I was wrong. I’m sorry.”

She gave him a sad smile. “I only wish I’d freed them all and received twice the beating.”

* * *

Padmé sensed a change in her and Anakin’s relationship following their one-on-one conversation. They hadn’t even _had_ a relationship previously, they would just exchange a brief greeting before Padmé stepped out to let him speak with Shmi privately. But now he’d ask her to stay and talk with them sometimes, and the respect he showed her felt more genuine, not like it was an obligation or a habit. He wasn’t calling her _domina_ so much anymore either, she noticed. And whenever the gladiators saluted the emperor in the arena, Anakin always looked directly at her.

A few months later, Shmi again said she was feeling too under the weather to walk over to the _ludus,_ but she insisted that Padmé go without her because it was good for her to get out of the palace and also because Anakin enjoyed her company. Shmi didn’t actually seem sick at all and Padmé thought she detected a sly expression on her face, but the opportunity of another afternoon alone with Anakin was too tempting to pass up.

And so she found herself at the _ludus_ alone again, standing opposite Anakin in the visitors’ chamber. “It was good of you to come anyway,” he said after she’d explained Shmi’s absence.

Padmé shrugged. “I like getting out of the palace every so often,” she said, thankful Shmi had provided a convenient excuse for her to use.

They chatted for a little while before Padmé found the courage to say, “May I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“How old were you when you came here?”

She hoped she hadn’t offended him by bringing up bad memories, and thankfully he merely looked startled rather than angry. “Twelve,” he said.

Padmé nodded; she knew he must have been young, but hearing the confirmation made her heart hurt. How, in all the years she’d known her, had she never bothered wondering if Shmi had a family she’d been separated from by slavery? “I’m so sorry,” she said, voice shaking a little. “For what happened to you and your mother.”

“It’s not your fault,” Anakin said. “You were hardly much older than I was at the time.”

“It’s Rome’s fault, and I am Rome.”

“The emperor is Rome. Your husband is Rome. You’re not.”

“But someday I will be,” Padmé said, thinking of the inevitable day when Palpatine would die, and Rush would become emperor and she his empress.

Anakin shook his head. “Not to me. Never to me.” He smiled slightly and looked down at his feet. “You know, in a way…it’s silly, but in a way it feels like I’ve known you for years. There was a statue of you in the town where my first master lived, I passed it every time I went to the market.”

“Was there?” Padmé asked, surprised. There were statues of her in the city of Rome too, of course, but she always felt strange when she looked at them and saw her own cold marble eyes staring back.

“Yes. It was a beautiful statue. When I first saw it I thought it represented a goddess,” Anakin confessed, blushing a little as the words tumbled out of his mouth.

Padmé felt her own cheeks heating up as well. “They make those statues so idealized,” she said with an embarrassed laugh. “I’m nowhere near as beautiful in reality.”

“I was going to say the statue didn’t even begin to do you justice,” Anakin said.

He was looking at her intensely, and Padmé’s heart was hammering in her chest. They slowly stepped towards each other, an almost unconscious movement, as if the gods themselves were pushing them together.

Anakin lifted his hand, trembling slightly, and rested it on her cheek. After a moment’s hesitation she covered it with her own. “Anakin,” she breathed.

“Padmé,” he said.

Hearing him speak her name for the first time unlocked something in her heart, and before she knew what she was doing, Padmé was leaning up and kissing him. And all at once she understood why Helen went with Paris, why it took a god’s intervention to make Aeneas leave Dido.

* * *

Anakin couldn’t help but be awed by the grandeur of the imperial palace even though he was sneaking through a series of hidden passageways and desperately hoping not to be caught. It was somehow even more impressive inside than out, all marble and mosaics and frescoes.

At last he reached his destination and he hesitantly knocked on the door, heart in his throat. If this wasn’t the right door, he was in big trouble.

To his relief, Padmé opened it a second after his knock, as if she’d been waiting for him. She looked up and down the corridor to make sure there was no one in sight before tugging Anakin inside and shutting the door again.

She led him through a series of rooms until they ended up in her bedroom. The room was devoid even of slaves, but Anakin was still nervous. “What if someone comes in and finds us?”

“They won’t,” Padmé assured him.

But once they were on the bed, once Anakin was freeing her hair from its intricate style and starting to unfasten her gown, she grabbed his wrist, doubt on her own face. “Are you all right?” he whispered.

“Surely this is impossible,” she whispered back. “You’re a gladiator. I’m married to the man who will one day be emperor. How is there any way this can end happily?”

In his mind Anakin knew she was right, but somehow…somehow, in his heart, he knew they were meant for each other, knew the fates themselves were willing this to happen. _“Amor vincit omnia,”_ he said softly.

Padmé’s expression relaxed and she smiled up at him, so beautiful she took his breath away. _“Et nos cedamus amori,”_ she murmured, pulling him down for another kiss.

* * *

Ironically, it was only two weeks later that Clovis flagged Padmé down upon her return from the _ludus._ “Do you know what the people are saying?” he said rather unspecifically.

“What are they saying?” she asked patiently.

“They’re saying that you’re having an affair with a gladiator and that’s why you’re always at the _ludus.”_

Padmé did a remarkable job of staying composed. “As I’ve explained to you before, I accompany my slave to the _ludus_ so that she may visit her son, who is a gladiator,” she said calmly. Technically, that _was_ the only reason she went to the _ludus._ After all, he hadn’t accused her of smuggling a gladiator into her bedchamber. “I hardly even speak to anyone the whole time I’m there.”

Clovis’s eyes were narrowed. “I still don’t understand why you care so much about your slave and her son.”

“Because I’d like to think that if the fates hadn’t given me so much fortune and I was in her position, my mistress would be kind enough to let me see the son I was separated from for ten years,” Padmé said in clipped tones.

“Why can’t she go herself, then? Why do you have to go with her?”

“I worry the _lanista_ wouldn’t let her in without me there. He doesn’t like people interrupting his gladiators’ training, you know.”

“Well, then I will write out a document for the _lanista_ giving imperial permission for your slave to enter the _ludus_ anytime she wants, but you will not be going back there,” Clovis snapped. “Understood?”

Padmé clenched her jaw. But she knew she had to pick her battles, and this just wasn’t worth it when it was one she’d lose no matter how hard she fought. “Yes, darling,” she said, plastering on a false smile. The perfect Roman matron.

* * *

“I need to tell you something,” Padmé said, anxiety written in every inch of her expression.

Anakin sat up in bed, all drowsiness gone. “What is it?”

She sat up too, pulling the sheet up with her for modesty, as if Anakin hadn’t seen her naked dozens of times in the past six months. “I—” She cleared her throat and met his eyes. “I’m with child.”

Anakin stared at her, struggling to make sense of the words. “You…” He exhaled as he started to register the full implications of what she’d said. “Is it your husband’s?”

“I don’t think he can have children,” Padmé whispered. “We’ve been married ten years and never conceived. He insists it’s a problem with me, but…” She rested a hand on her stomach. “Clearly it’s not.”

Anakin followed her hand’s movement with his eyes, still stunned. With his own trembling hand, he gently tugged the sheet down so he could touch her bare stomach. It was flat now, but wouldn’t be for long.

The future empress of Rome was carrying his child.

Anakin felt tears spring to his eyes, though he wasn’t sure if they were tears of sorrow, fear, or joy. Because despite the panic he felt rising, some part of him was celebrating the fact that he was going to be a father, that he and the woman he loved were going to start a family.

A family that could never be acknowledged by anyone but the two of them. “What are we going to do?” he asked, voice shaking.

“I don’t know,” Padmé said, looking utterly helpless. “The easiest thing to do would be to pretend it _is_ Clovis’s child.”

“So I’ll never know them,” Anakin said flatly. “I’ll never know my own child.” But he’d known as soon as she’d said the words that that was the only possible outcome.

“I said that’s the _easiest_ thing to do. But it’s not what I _want_ to do.”

Anakin furrowed his brow. “What do you want to do, then?”

She took a deep breath. “I want to run away with you.”

* * *

Really, the whole thing was surprisingly easy. Rome was so prone to fires that it was easy enough to pretend the fires that broke out in the imperial palace and the _ludus_ were accidents. Easy enough for the gladiators and slaves to slip off to freedom in the chaos. Easy enough to make it seem like the wife of the emperor’s heir had tragically perished in the flames. And everyone would be too busy mourning that loss to notice that most of her money and jewelry had mysteriously disappeared.

They stole away by moonlight while Rome burned. Padmé shivered in the ocean breeze as they sailed in the direction of Carthage, so Anakin shrugged off his own cloak and draped it over her shoulders, his hand lingering protectively on the swell of her stomach.

“Where are we going?” Ahsoka asked. There had been no time for Anakin to explain his plan, so she and Obi-Wan had just blindly followed him out of the burning _ludus_ to freedom.

Anakin looked around the boat at Padmé, Shmi, Ahsoka, Obi-Wan. His family. “Home,” he said.


End file.
